


Let Us Burn and Turn Cheek

by Heavy Henry (pelicanna), SnarkyBreeze



Series: Let Us Burn and Turn Cheek [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Car Chases, Inspired by Mad Max Series (Movies), M/M, The Real Yakov Doesn't Deserve This, Vehicles, basically an elaborate metaphor for viktor's thirst, desert apocalypse, mechanic Yuuri, viktor on concussion, warlord viktor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 19:40:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19383412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelicanna/pseuds/Heavy%20Henry, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkyBreeze/pseuds/SnarkyBreeze
Summary: He’d been scared for years.  Scared that this was his lot in life.  Scared of what Yakov would do if he tried to leave.  Viktor’s strength was unmatched, but the wrath of The Head was unparalleled.Viktor was scared that by now, he’d fallen too far for grace.  Now that he’d tried to take matters into his own hands for the sake of the people he’d wronged, he’d met with this wicked fate.The last thing he remembered before blacking out was a bang, a swift jerk upward, the clang of metal on bone, and the fear that he’d never escape The Citadel as long as he lived.





	1. Drumroll (We're All Thirsty)

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't already, check out [this awesome spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4OolqzkGcOJvgSiRLLNqaY) that we curated to accompany the fic!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a world where the world ends at the end of your block  
> And them little whirlwinds spin friction round the clock  
> I'll be savage, hunt and gather the average rather cadaver...  
> No peace in the middle of a war zone...

 

[ **1.  Drumroll (We're All Thirsty)** ](https://open.spotify.com/track/7ABPrWFl9EowGgSLmzhYaG)

 

 

Viktor was thirsty.

It was shameful to even think.  He was riding through Switser territory, his fleet awaiting his signal on the outskirts, ready at a moment’s notice to seize their water supply.  

Or oil.  Or whatever it was they would find.

Viktor knew these people were thirstier than he’d ever be.  As he cruised the empty streets on his cycle with Makkachin in the sidecar next to him, gaunt faces peered out from dusty windows.

They waited for the inevitable, hating Viktor and the pall of death that rode in on the cloud kicked up by his wheels.

Viktor pursed his lips.  The hot wind blowing sand against his face was an almost unbearable abrasive.  But if things went sideways, this would be nothing.

Honestly, if things went right, this would be nothing.

He needed to get to Chris before the fleet got impatient.  Before they got worried and came to extract him.

To them, the plan was simple.  Get in, get the resources, get out.  Kill anyone who got in their way.  

To Viktor, there was so much more.

Commander Giacometti was awaiting his arrival to start negotiations on the coup that would finally bring down the Rusker Citadel and return resources to the desolate masses.  If all went well, there would be no raid. He would return to his fleet with Chris as a phony captive, and two days later, a dozen armies would descend upon The Citadel.

But not before Viktor offered his own army the merciful choice between rebellion or death.

The Head had choked out every territory within the limits of his machines’ fuel capacity and his army’s firepower.  Everywhere Viktor looked, everywhere he stepped, there was hopelessness, fear, resentment, and suffering.

Death strode on in his wake, because _he_ , Viktor, invited it.

He tried to swallow, but the motion only cemented his dry lips together even more.  He felt the cracks deepen and breathed out hard against the immediate sting of dust finding its way into the new open cuts.

The Switsers had no debts to collect.  They harbored a few known plastic runners whose water was pure and drinkable, but Viktor had made a promise to Chris a moon or two ago to turn a blind eye.

Chris was an ally in the way the spider in the corner of his bedroom was an ally.  His army weeded out the flies so long as they were ensured safety.

But Viktor shuddered to think what would happen if he ever betrayed his friend’s trust.  Chris’ venom was deadly, and many a good man had fallen victim to his ruthless tactics.

Makka huffed and sneezed from her perch in the sidecar.

“Patience, girl,” Viktor rasped.  “When I have water, you’ll drink first.”

Opening his mouth was a mistake.  The arid air raked against his throat, sending a searing pain all the way down into his chest.  

Two days until the revolution—the last time Viktor would invoke the wrath of death and seize the waters of life, and his prey would be the one man who had taken everything.

His eye.  His family.  His home.

He was a mile out from the city’s center when everything erupted.  Maybe Viktor should have seen it coming. Maybe he should have clued Georgi in as to his intentions, brought a handful of backup men.

He had half a second to process the roar of a cycle engine before he was cut off by a single bike and a line of bullets drawn in the sand.

There were two men on the machine in front of him, their faces concealed with dirt-caked cloth, but Viktor could make out the familiar shine of flaxen hair on the smaller rider’s head.

“You’re dead, _Shittyforov_ ,” the kid yelled, his gun trained in Viktor’s direction.  The bike’s driver swung around, cutting off the path, and drew his own weapon, a Rusker-made crossbow strapped to his back.

Viktor killed the engine on his trike and raised his hands.

“Hold your fire, boys,” he wheezed, “I have precious cargo.”

“You heard him, Beka, aim for the dog,” Yuri sneered.  “Traitors don’t get to negotiate.”

Viktor scanned his surroundings, looking for an out.  Even if he let Makka loose, these rogues would have her before she found cover.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Viktor called.  “I’ll give you whatever you’re looking for, just let me get to Commander Giacometti first.”

“Not good enough,” Yuri called impatiently, gesturing in Otabek’s direction.

The biker emptied a bolt into the sand directly in front of the sidecar, gathering up a new round and reloading in one swift motion.

“Dead or alive doesn’t mean shit to me, old man.  After the starving horde picks your bones clean, I’ll deliver them to Yakov myself!”

Viktor was getting impatient.  He didn’t want to fight these kids here in what could practically be considered neutral territory.  He needed to _move._   Every moment wasted was one closer to his fleet’s decision to raze the place.

“You don’t want to do that,” he said.  “I promise you’ll get whatever you want, if you just give me time.”

Yuri spat in the sand.  “What I want is you dead!”

What a persistent weed.

He had enough time to hear a voice call, “Don’t hurt the dog!” and to see a team of masked figures descend on the street before a sharp crack and a searing pain at his temple knocked out the lights.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Yuri groaned.  “Fuck!”

Viktor swam in an unnavigable fog as commotion erupted around them.  The roar of Otabek’s bike mixed with a chorus of shouts, and Viktor felt rough hands jerking him into an awkward position.

Cool metal cuffs were clamped tightly around his wrists.  Unease swam in Viktor’s stomach and emptied itself onto the sand in dry, shuddering heaves.  His lips stung with acid; he did his best to wipe them on his shirt, but the dizziness the movement elicited had him retching once more.

It was midday, but the streets went black, and then silent, and then Viktor felt nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

 

“I can’t believe it was that easy.  Why’d you bandage his head?”

“I thought you wanted him alive, Peach.  He would have bled out. Or gotten an infection or something.”

“He’s a _murderer!_ we’re not supposed to keep him comfortable!”

The second voice seemed hesitant, wherever it was coming from.

“Hence the hood ornament treatment?”

“It’s a statement,” chuckled the first voice.  “I want to show we’re worth our salt. Plus, he’ll look so pretty when I hand him over to the King.  _Seung-Gil, put it with the others in the haul.  I want the trike, too.”_

“Is this going to work?”

Viktor felt the hot breath of an idling engine against his back and the strain of a rubber bungee across his chest.

“If it does, Yuuri, there will be feasting and dancing in Yutopia tomorrow.  How long until we’re ready to go?”

“Give me fifteen.”

“I wanna leave in ten.  I’m gonna go tend to the cargo.”

Sunlight seared in Viktor’s vision as his eye fluttered open.  Someone in a tattered shirt and a toolbelt looked up at him through a scrutinizing squint.  His goggles were affixed with the remnants of eyeglass lenses, and bits of hardware were tucked away in his clothing almost haphazardly.  Various knick knacks and trophies hung from a chain necklace around his throat and bracelets at his wrists. His hands were gloved and delicate.  

And his eyes…  His eyes were shimmering amber in the midday sun.

“Magpies!  We’re moving in five,” called his friend, a blur of movement in a crimson jacket.  “Don’t get left behind!”

“Hey, I thought you said ten,” said Amber Eyes, pulling on his goggles and trotting along after Crimson Coat.

Every breath was ragged and painful in Viktor’s chest.  As his vision started to return, he could make out nothing but open desert in front of him.  The burn of hot metal against his cable-bound skin was torture. These ‘Magpies,’ whatever they were, had him strung up to some huge, thundering machine.  Viktor started to realize a little too late just what kind of machine it was—judging by the spiked cow-catcher at his feet and the rumbling engines at his back, the dizzying blow to his head was the least of his worries.

“Hey.  Hey!” He tried calling out, but everything from his lips to his lungs was dry and gravelly.  Without his arms to help him, Viktor scrambled to nose his way into the bandanna around his neck—the most sparing of precautions he could manage to lessen the repercussions of the industrial sand blast he was about to receive.  He caught the piece of fabric on his jaw and chewed away frantically, trying to move the scarf up his face.

His mouth he could close.  His eye he could close. But he’d suffocate in minutes if he didn’t do something about his nostrils. Hell, he’d be a human sandbag after half an hour’s run.

He’d kill Yakov with his bare hands if he ever made it out of this alive.  That was the only thing Viktor could think as the engine roared, hot and hungry, behind him.  His stomach lurched as the rig crept forward. Maybe the sand would be the least of his worries.

The high speeds would knock all of the wind from his lungs anyway.

“Okay, Magpies, we’re rolling!” Crimson Coat’s call rang out above the thrumming machinery just as Viktor managed to poke his nose under the edge of his fabric.  Viktor thought maybe his name was Peach, but he couldn’t be sure whose voice was whose, and it probably didn’t matter, because he’d be dead before he got the chance to ask.

That was probably his luckiest fate, too. 

They began to pick up speed, the dry earth crackling beneath four rows of thick, heavy tires. Viktor hurtled face-first into the red dust of the open desert, the deafening engines roaring furiously in his ears.  Above it all, his captors’ cries echoed across the sands like a charm of their namesake birds, whooping and tittering in shrill tones.

It was the stuff of nightmares.  Whoever was behind the wheel was a maniac to maneuver a machine of this size at such breakneck speeds.  Whoever engineered it must have had a touch of madness in them as well, for as quickly as the thing accelerated.  The cow catcher kicked up dirt and rocks at Viktor’s legs; he thought he might have even seen a few lizards get the boot before he had to shut his eye and hope for the best.  The blast of hot wind and rough sand was like flames wreathing his head. He was thankful he’d thought to cover up.

Viktor was beginning to feel dizzy again.  He fought to keep consciousness as he rolled on into the unknown—although if he opened his eye to try to get his bearings, he’d lose the sight of it too, just within moments.

He tried to breathe steady.  Felt the heat, acknowledged it, forgot it.  He took the pain as it came and reminded himself that this _had_ to end; a rig like this couldn’t run forever.  Even if the entire haul was full of contraband fuel, they’d have to stop eventually.

He needed to survive until then.

It was a strange sort of falling, rushing forward at unimaginable speeds with nothing at the front for protection.

With a blistering metal grate burning into his back to remind him who was in charge.

Viktor remembered with a sick sense of irony that he’d tied many a delinquent client to the front of his own rig when the time came to collect and they still ran short.  Perhaps he’d died in the Switser city and this was his eternal retribution.

No.

No, Viktor knew with grim certainty what awaited him in hell would be far worse than this.

All mutinous thoughts aside, he was still Yakov’s highest-ranking general.  His last act before embarking on his mission to collude with Christophe was raining judgment upon a fleet of smugglers he’d caught running water to the Urser Downs.  They got to watch their own guts become buzzard food as they cooked alive beneath the desert sun.

There had been eyes on him that day.  He’d put on quite the performance for Yakov.  But The Head’s approval didn’t ease Viktor’s haunted sleep that night, nor did the hot bath drawn in his honor wash the blood from his hands.

He chewed his tongue to keep from being sick again, scared of drowning in his own bile.

_Scared._

He’d been scared for years.  Scared that this was his lot in life.  Scared of what Yakov would do if he tried to leave.  Viktor’s strength was unmatched, but the wrath of The Head was unparalleled.

Viktor was scared that by now, he’d fallen too far for grace.  Now that he’d tried to take matters into his own hands for the sake of the people he’d wronged, he’d met with this wicked fate.

The last thing he remembered before blacking out was a bang, a swift jerk upward, the clang of metal on bone, and the fear that he’d never escape The Citadel as long as he lived.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up July 2nd and will feature music by Ben Howard!


	2. Rivers In Your Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh I am not myself today  
> I am not feeling okay  
> And you showed me hope amidst the harlequins in spring  
> And you told me life was learning how to be your friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **! ! ! S T O P ! ! !**  
>  If you read Chapter 1 before this chapter was posted, go back and read the bit I forgot to copy and paste into the chapter 😅 Whoops! If not, you're all good!

**[2\. Rivers In Your Mouth](https://open.spotify.com/track/4Uru57SoQpHBacQVhfcpdC) **

 

“I can thread the needle, watch.”

“Phich, you’re crazy,” Yuuri moaned, eyeing the gorge that they were fast approaching.  “No one in their right mind would drive a war machine through the Euran Badlands.”

“Exactly,” Phichit said with a wild grin.  “I’m not slowing down, either.”

Yuuri adjusted his footing on the turret he’d fashioned in the passenger door and peered out and down at their trophy, who until a few moments ago had been writhing and fighting against his bonds.  Now he hung from the engine’s grate like a rag doll.

“I think he’s dead,” he mumbled, squinting against the sun.

Phichit cackled, tipping his goggles down onto his nose.  “We’ll find out in a sec.  _ Hold onto something,”  _ he called back into the cab, and then with a sharp yank he pulled the steering wheel to the right and skidded at an impressive diagonal onto a new path that jutted out of the earth at a sharp incline.  Yuuri braced himself as he was thrown against the railing.

The badlands were rough terrain, unfit for anything other than a buggy or a cycle.  Yuuri had built this rig out of the remains of two trailers, two freight cabins, and a rusted-out wagon.  They’d be lucky to find a single patch of ground for the next half-mile they could even rest on evenly.

And they’d need one; the way Phichit was catapulting them from one hillock to the next, they’d be stopping for repairs within the hour.

The captured general’s head bobbed and jerked with every bump in the road.  Yuuri couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him. Maybe his pity was untenable; Nikiforov was notorious for his manifold methods of torture.  But that didn’t mean Yuuri was ready for the Magpies to match his level of coldheartedness, even in retaliation. At least handing him over to the King left that kind of thing out of his hands.  All he cared about was keeping Yutopia safe and keeping his rig rolling as long as Phichit needed it.

_ Which reminded him… _

“Hamster-head.  You damage my rig and you’ll be the next hood ornament,” he growled into the cabin.  “Can you please get to a road?”

“How long do you think we have until Yakov’s men are after us?” Phichit called back, clutching the wheel so hard his torso was fully out of the seat.  “I’m not losing distance or daylight. I’ll work vehicle repair into our deal with— _ fuckfuckfuckholdon!” _

Phichit leaned into the wheel as the war machine’s right side hit a sharp incline and rocked the thing up at a precarious angle.

_ “The hell, Peach!?” _ Yuuri hissed, clambering to pull himself back into the cabin.  They hit flat earth again with a shock, a hard impact that left a series of crashes and metallic whines in its wake.  Yuuri laid back his seat and scanned his makeshift monitoring system for damage. Two of the tires were out, which would account for the screeching and sudden drag.  A burst coolant tank. He had a spare; he’d had pretty good luck with the last couple of deals he’d run. His services were unparalleled in the desert. He knew that even Phichit couldn’t have made this run in any other rig.  

“You have ten minutes to find cover before the front engine overheats,” Yuuri warned.  “I’m not running any speed repairs out here.”

Phichit huffed and snorted for a moment, his eyes scanning the stretch of land ahead.  “You can’t give me fifteen?”

“At the cost of your rear-wheel drive and the generator return,” Yuuri snapped.  “You’ll never have a chance on terrain like this and we’ll have to stop more often to recharge.  No promises if there’s a dust storm.”

“Fuck,” Phichit spat.  “Fine.”

 

* * *

  
  


Viktor was shaken awake by sudden impact with hard, hot earth.  He couldn’t remember exactly what had landed him in such a position until rough hands jerked his arms backward.  His back burned between his shoulder blades, the skin crumpling like paper as he was molded into place. Feet and hands were pulled back behind him.  When he struggled to adjust, groaning against his own movement, he realized he was tied firm in that position.

“Well, he’s not dead.”

Crimson Coat.  That cheeky bastard sounded all too disappointed to discover Viktor was still kicking.  Orders were spat in quick succession—far too quick for Viktor to wrap his hazy head around in this state—and then the sounds of tinkering and relaxed chatter droned on like white noise just beyond the reach of his consciousness.

Viktor fought to open his eye, now crusted over from his fast and furious facial.  The sunlight seared in his vision. Squinting, he checked for anyone who might be nearby, anyone he could ask…

The rig loomed in front of him, a chimera of patchwork machinations that would have seemed comical if Viktor hadn’t seen firsthand its fearsome desert handling.  Someone was climbing all over the front fender among a cacophony of clanging metal and frenzied muttering. The air shimmered and rippled around him from the heat of the engine.  Viktor hardly caught sight of his face through the haze, and only once when he surfaced from his work to wipe the sweat from his brow. Those same amber eyes that once blinked up at him glanced over briefly, indifferently, before the figure hopped down and dashed out of sight.

Flypaper in his throat.  Eye crusted shut. Sinuses dry and bleeding.  Lungs rattling in his ribcage.

When the amber-eyed Magpie returned toting a silver canister, Viktor did his best to gain attention, shifting at his post with a little (hopefully pitiful) groan.

It helped him find his voice again in that the stick in his larynx caused him to cough up a glob of pink-tinged bile.  It stung like hell, but anything was better than dryness at that point.  

That, and Amber Eyes looked his way once more.

“Your name?” he rasped, hoping that in baring his teeth he offered more of a smile than a grimace.  Viktor was utterly desperate. If he remembered correctly, this was the more sympathetic of the two voices he heard once he came to.  Then again, he hadn’t seen any of the other runners since their journey started.

“Yuuri,” Amber Eyes answered with a leery side-eye.

“Your rig?”

Yuuri nodded.

“Unconventional,” Viktor said with an experimental swallow.

“She’s scrap,” Amber Eyes—Yuuri—huffed.  “The Citadel hoards all the best parts and fuel.  The rest of us have to scavenge.”

“She’s impressive.”  Viktor shifted again easing the tension on his shoulders.  Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe it was the sun. But he thought Yuuri blushed a little bit at the compliment.  He hoped so, anyway, because the next word to come out of his mouth was going to be a gamble. “Water?”

The mechanic froze at the question, his expression pointedly blank.

“Please,” Viktor begged.  He sat back on the heels of his boots.

He thought Yuuri might have been ready to cave.  His canteen hung heavy from his belt. God, how Viktor craved a sip.  Hell, even a drop,  _ anything _ to ease the column of white-hot fire that burned through his core.

“Hey, hey!  Scum! Quit harrassing my mechanic!”  Crimson Coat marched over positively fuming.  The outline where his goggles once sat exposed an intense, livid stare.  Viktor knew that look. This was no one to be messed with.

“Phichit, it’s fine,” Yuuri mumbled, hoisting the canister back over his shoulder.  “He’s thirsty.”

The Magpies’ apparent leader scoffed.  “Thirsty?” he sneered, crouching down until his nose was within an inch of Viktor’s.  “You’re  _ thirsty? _   Yuuri, do you remember what this guy said when The Citadel seized half my people’s water supply?”

The mechanic swallowed hard, shaking his head, before pointedly turning back to his work.  Phichit’s wild, vindictive stare could have bored holes through Viktor’s skull.

“ _ ‘To rely so heavily on water that you cannot give to other people is a tragic waste,’ _ ” he recited, his face twisted in anger.  “ _ ‘If you can’t decrease consumption, consider decreasing population.’ _   And then you taxed what you were so gracious to let us keep.”  He spat in the dirt between them, pushing himself to his feet once more.  “Drink up, asshole,” he muttered before climbing back up into the war machine.

Viktor gazed blearily down at the thick puddle swirling in the dirt.  He leaned into his restraints, resting his back but putting further strain on his shoulders and wrists.  He was almost tempted to take the radical up on his offer. What other choice did he have? Wait and hope?  Were those cards really in his deck right now?

He held back, however.  Viktor was nowhere near removed from his pride, even as he crisped beneath the desert sun.  The skin on the back of his neck was brittle and thin as paper stretched over his bones, and searing so intensely that the burn was interspersed with chills that seized his entire body.

He’d rather die than provoke further war with The Head.  Anything The King was capable of would only prolong conflict.  Without a say in any of it, Viktor would have to stick around and watch the framework he’d set for mutiny be demolished.  And all the while, Yakov’s wrath would expand and distort and more people would fall victim.

“Drink,” muttered a soft voice.

“Muddy sputum… not in my diet,” Viktor chuckled drily.  The shadow looming over him eased the unrelenting burn but twisted his nerves to nearly breaking.  He could find resilience in his heart if he was left to his own devices. But this on-and-off scrutiny from his captors was pressing on him.

A splash, a slosh, cool metal shoved under his nose and the fresh smell of potable water.

“Will you please just drink?” Yuuri murmured impatiently.  “Phichit’s down with the cargo.”

Viktor thrust his chin forward and pressed his lips to the canteen without another thought and pulled greedily; the spill of water over his tongue and down his throat was an all-encompassing wave of relief.  Viktor wasn’t entirely certain he’d even  _ breathed _ like this for days.  His chest heaved as he gulped, the hot air stinging his nostrils in stark contrast to the cold liquid.  Yuuri gave the canteen an extra little tip, sending thin streams dribbling down Viktor’s chin and chest, spattering droplets that dried instantly on the sand before him.  If he’d had hands to reach out, Viktor would have snatched the container up and downed it. Charity be damned; the craving intensified the moment water passed the threshold of his lips.  He was bound to the bottle as if electrically, and nothing could stop the involuntary moan of complaint that tore through him when Yuuri finally did pull away.

Yuuri’s water was sweet and fresh.  His voice was soft and kind. He took risks at the expense of what had to be a volatile partnership in this hell of a desert.  Viktor looked up pleadingly into his eyes; maybe he could maneuver one more sip, even a  _ drop _ .  But all the mechanic had to offer was a grim smile and a three-fingered wave before turning his attention back to the engine.

Viktor let his head hang once more and tried to focus on not hurting.  Perhaps, even only part of the time, he actually had an ally among the Magpies.  Perhaps the quiet mechanic with amber eyes could take pity on a wretch like Viktor Nikiforov.

It was all idealist bullshit though.  Viktor was used to withholding trust. Viktor was damned to live without an ally out in the wastes, valuable to those closest to him only by what he could offer.  Water. Fuel. Amnesty. Vengeance. Without any of these, Viktor was nothing.

The kindness of others has always come at a price.  This was probably no exception. This was probably damage control.  That sip of water was insurance for a smooth run to The Kingdom.  

Which didn’t exactly work out in Viktor’s favor, but he hadn’t been able to focus long enough to figure out his plans for rerouting.  Maybe it just meant figuring out where on this massive rig they’d stored his trike and making a break for it in any way possible. The Magpies had taken advantage of a lucky opening back in the Switser streets—maybe they weren’t so strong after all, and Viktor could sway the fierce Phichit into believing he was on their side.  He was going to need all the firepower available when it came to The Citadel.  

“Shit.   _ Shit,” _ one of the Magpies hissed somewhere in Viktor’s periphery.  “Peach, we have company.”

Viktor snapped his head up and scanned what he could see of the horizon.  

“They’re not long out.  We have to move,” Phichit murmured, glancing down at Viktor and then back at the haul.  “Yuuri, bud, you finished?”

“The coolant line is busted; I can install a new one in about fifteen minimum,” Yuuri called back.

“We have about fifteen  _ seconds, _ Yuu, I need you to drive.”

The mechanic climbed out from under the rig.  “You’ll need me down here if you want your front engine to last a potential chase.”

Phichit screwed his face up, clearly frustrated, and glanced from Yuuri to the other Magpie, then back at the approaching fleet.  “How many, Guang-Hong?”

“Handful of wagons, a couple bikes, and a tank,” came a voice from atop the rig.  “The tank will take some time but everything else has us beat on speed and maneuverability.”

“Damn,” Phichit hissed.  “Fine. Lutz formation and we roll out in two.  I’ll get it warmed up now. Yuuri, if I stay in the valley and avoid rough road can you fix this on the run?”

“Yeah.”

The next minute was a scramble of tossing things back into the war machine as the engine idled, ready to go the moment the Magpies were.  Weapons were starting to emerge from compartments all over the rig; Phichit was loading a variety of rifles and a few larger arms that ranged in age and origin by a wide margin and tossing them to random members of his crew as they drew near.

Viktor waited with grim anticipation of what was to come.  He only knew one faction that maneuvered an actual armored tank, and they’d been Yakov’s dogs since well before Viktor was involved.  It would take the heavy machinery a fairly long time to make it to them if they got going soon, but if Celestino’s wagons could throw even the tiniest wrench in their works… 

His prospects were bad, whether The Head considered his disappearance desertion or failure.  He was in it for the long haul now; he couldn’t ever go back, even if he wanted to.

Viktor started preparing his wits.  This was going to be a proper battle if things didn’t go their way.  He was certain anything he said in warning would fall on deaf ears until he could gain the Magpies’ trust.  Judging by his treatment so far, that wouldn’t be for a long time, so Viktor waited and contemplated how he could show his captors that he was on their side.

And hopefully help them escape in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up on Friday, July 5th and will feature music from Gogol Bordello!


	3. Trans-Continental Hustle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When death comes, I won't be there  
> In fact, I will not be found anywhere  
> Not in Nevada, not in Sahara  
> On Chomolungma or Guadalajara  
> 'Cause I'll be climbing top of Never-Neverest  
> With my contaminated friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day early due to travel logistics. *shrugs*
> 
> Enjoy!

**[3\. Trans-Continental Hustle](https://open.spotify.com/track/44sDr8y89j99Zx7ODRzipK) **

 

Phichit approached with gun drawn in one hand and a pair of steel cuffs in the other.  “If you want us to hand you over to The King alive, you’ll cooperate with everything I’m about to tell you,” he muttered.  “I’m down a man until my mechanic finishes his job. Now, normally, It’s me or him behind the wheel; the rest of my crew hold different jobs.   _ However,” _ he said, a grimace of pure annoyance painted across his face, “seeing as I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you, there’s no way I’m putting you up anywhere near a weapon.”

“A logical move,” Viktor deadpanned, keeping his gaze fixed on the spot of crusted earth where his captor had spit not too long ago.

_ “Shut up,” _ Phichit snapped.  “I’m cuffing you to the wheel and you’re driving us out of the range.  There will be guns on you. You try anything funny, you’ll be the first to feel the repercussions.”

Viktor felt his bonds loosen and let himself be dragged to the cabin of the war machine without protest.  This was good; this was exactly the out he needed. It was just a matter of whether or not the radicals could hold their own once those wagons caught up.

“I know you’re no idiot, Warlord, so I trust you can navigate us to The Kingdom without issue,” Phichit continued.  He adjusted Viktor’s cuffs so that he was attached to the machine’s steering wheel. From the passenger’s seat, a black-haired Magpie watched them with dark eyes and a rifle in his lap.

“I can do that,” Viktor rasped with a nod.  “Where will you be?”

“Up top, fighting,” Phichit said with a curious quirk of his head.  “And we’ve got a man below running repairs. That mechanic is the light of my life; if he’s hurt on the job down there, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Understood,” Viktor mumbled.

Phichit looked Viktor up and down for just a moment.  Maybe he truly didn’t expect this kind of compliance from someone who had begged him for water not too long before.  Whatever was whizzing through the mind behind those wild brown eyes, after a minute he seemed to be satisfied.

“Do not touch  _ anything _ unless someone orders you to.  Go. Drive. ROLLING OUT!”

Viktor started the rig rolling, dancing on the clutch as he did his best to feel his way through the machine’s gear system.  The Magpies’ whoops and cries blurred with the engine’s growl in his ears as Viktor scanned the desert ahead of him, charting out the safest route.   _ Low in the valley _ .  This rested on Viktor staying out of sight and Yuuri being able to finish his job.  

“Warlord, pick it up,” Phichit called from somewhere above him.  “Guang Hong, you’ve got bikes coming up passenger side.”

Viktor cringed against the deafening roll of gunfire to his right.  They were finally starting to pick up some speed, and once Viktor could get them onto the straight and narrow he could really test the limits of what this thing could do.

_ And once the mechanic was back. _   He reminded himself, letting his foot go heavy on the gas pedal; that amber-eyed Yuuri was his only shot at redemption at the moment, possibly even a shot at victory.  

From the rear-view mirror, Viktor could see the first wave of wagons pulling ever closer.  He counted at least five harpoon guns, two creatively-mounted rotary saws, and a few ladders.  Nothing huge. He assumed the pawns were only there to try and slow them down enough for the tank to catch up.

God help them if they did.  Celestino was severe and unwavering.  His city contained what became The Citadel—a rich bed of fertile land and resources that declined into a barren, industrialized waste once Yakov got his hands on it.  Celestino was able to keep his land provided they paid taxes on the resources Yakov began to pull from them. When that wasn’t enough, he moved outward. Celestino relinquished his militia, his manufacturers, everything and anything to ensure a cut of the spoils.  

It was despicable, the illusion of comfort he constructed out of what Yakov allowed him to have.

It was hilarious how impermanent it all was.  Viktor couldn’t wait to be living proof of that.

“Shoot.  Driver, bikes coming your way,” called the sandy-haired gunman named Guang Hong, his voice quavering a bit.  Viktor could hear Phichit shouting something from atop the rig, although by now his yells were muffled by the wind roaring past.

“I’m cuffed, I can’t fight.”  Viktor craned his neck around a few moments to check out how many he was dealing with on his side.  Two wagons were just about caught up and a handful of cyclists were beginning to take some kind of formation near the trailer hitch.  The valley was narrow and uneven; without arms or any knowledge of the vehicle’s complicated dashboard, Viktor did all he could think of and veered to his right, bringing himself dangerously close to a steep incline but presenting a little game of chicken for the little guys.

Some-stupid-how it worked, and Viktor found himself chuckling at the way the bikers scrambled to adjust speed to avoid getting caught under wheels bigger than their rides.  

Well, all but one.  Viktor didn’t catch it right away, but now as he was trying to get bearings on where everyone fell in, he saw him.

Birdfeed.  A young daredevil pulling a foolish stunt in the first moments of a dogfight.  The kind of fodder Viktor always dreamt of being back in his younger days, training under Nikolai to crusade for The Citadel.  Recklessly climbing the cliffside without a moment’s forethought.

And then boarding the rig.

_ Shit _ .  He’d either have to do some fancy footwork to try and reach any of the extraneous-looking buttons littering the dashboard or start banging away with his head.   The pawn used his momentum to spring off his bike, hooking his arms inside the cab through the open rear window.

The dark-haired Magpie snapped his aim back at the boarder and Viktor heard the distinct click of the safety disengaging.

“Wait! Stop!” the biker cried, “Guang Hong!  Guang Hong Ji, it’s me! It’s Leo!” Viktor watched in the rear-view as the young man swung his boot around and scrambled up through the window.  “Don’t shoot! I’m a friend!”

The sandy-haired gunman jumped down from his turret.  “Leo?!”

Up top, Phichit was cackling, bellowing his headcount at the top of his lungs.  Somehow, Viktor suspected he’d hold his own just fine up there for the moment being.  No wagons could squeeze past, anyway.  

“It’s really you.”

“Oh my god, Leo, you’re alive!”  Guang Hong knocked the intruder backwards onto the bench seat of the cabin.  “I thought you—”

“Shh, no, I’m here.  I’m okay,” Leo the Biker soothed.  Viktor could hear the hint of whimper in his voice as he and the Magpie embraced.  “Vikor, Yakov is stark raving over you. There’s 5,000 gallons on your head, dead or alive.”

Viktor laughed.  

“What happened?” Leo urged.  “Were you kidnapped? Overrun?  Did you desert?”

“Doesn’t appear that matters too much, does it?” Viktor said drily.  “If it’s all the same to Yakov, it’s all the same to me. In any case, if these are your allies, you might consider joining them.  The one up top doesn’t treat opponents very kindly.”

“Toss me a weapon; I’ll do whatever I can.”

The rig hurtled on, Viktor steering them gingerly out of the passage and back onto what began to resemble straight road.  Between Phichit, Guang Hong, and the newly-recruited Leo, they were holding off Celestino’s men fairly well. A few of the larger wagons were beginning to gain, however, and Viktor hadn’t seen Yuuri re-emerge from the underside yet.

“Warlord!” Phichit called from on high.  “Green switch by your right knee! Up-middle-up, down-middle-down, up-down middle!

“I’m cuffed!” Viktor growled, straining his right hand against its restraint to reach the correct switch.  His fingertips just touched, and he slowly conducted the sequence.

Whatever the green switch did, there was a lot of commotion about it in the form of choked-out yells and screeching metal.  With strange satisfaction, Viktor eked the accelerator just a bit further into the floor and they crept forward just a bit more.

“Two wagons on the left, two on the right,” the dark-eyed Magpie muttered, his eyes trained up on the rear mirror.  “You’ve got speed on them for now.”

“Not for long if I can’t floor it,” Viktor replied, checking his bearings over his left shoulder.  “If your greaser doesn’t finish up soon, they’ll have us.”

As if summoned by his words, the mechanic popped up in Viktor’s window, a plastic bottle in his hand and a face ruddy and drenched in sweat.

“I’m having technical difficulties with the line,” Yuuri panted, his bicep flexing as he held up his weight.  “I’m going to have to do things manually until we shake them. Stand on the gas when I signal,” he said. He then crawled along the side of the wagon, maneuvering around little hand-holds Viktor hadn’t even noticed until now.  The course was still precarious, but Yuuri seemed to manage with ease until he was straddling the hood of the engine, crouched over the front.

Viktor gulped at the view.  It wasn’t… well, it was  _ generous _ and  _ lovely _ but entirely irrelevant to the situation.  Viktor ought to have been focusing on Yuuri’s hands, waiting for a signal, or his face, for a look, not the subtle curve of the small of his back where his vest rode up.  

_ Damn. _

With a wink and grin, Yuuri threw a thumbs up back in Viktor’s direction, and he gunned it.  At the same time, Yuuri began squirting coolant down into the engine chamber. Viktor was impressed with the dedication it took to get down and work so close to those burning engines.  Just perched in front of the grill, Viktor had been miserable. Yuuri didn’t even have his face concealed. He grinned wildly, wind in his face, his shoulders soft and relaxed.

This must have been his element.  This must have been what he did in his day-to-day.  Viktor used to feel that freedom when he stood in Phichit’s shoes, overseeing the chaos and taking out opponents one by one.  Secure in the fact that he was the most powerful thing in the desert. Able to look past his downfalls and reservations and accept the comfort working for Yakov afforded him.

Now, the only time he could breathe easy was when he was alone.  And even then…

“Wagons right,” the guard said suddenly, and Viktor hardly had time to react before a double-decker battle wagon pulled up alongside the cabin on the passenger side.  A couple of scarified Ursers hung from each side, balancing it out, weapons slung over their backs.

Viktor pumped the brakes, hoping he could get the buggy ahead of him and slam it.  He could hear Phichit’s confused yelp up top, but he didn’t have time to explain. As the wagon pulled forward, a hand caught Yuuri’s foot from his perch in the front, and the mechanic was yanked away from the war machine and dragged into the top level of the wagon.

The Ursers veered off course without warning, and Viktor jerked the wheel around to follow.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Viktor hissed through gritted teeth.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Phichit shrieked, ducking down to peer into the cabin.

“They have your mechanic,” Viktor called urgently.  “I need someone on the engine with coolant.”

“New guy, you’re on the engine,” Phichit ordered, tossing a weapon to the floor and picking a new one off the rack in the back.  “Guang Hong, get him set up with coolant and then take my place. Seung Gil, get ready to board.”

The Magpies scrambled to their stations.  At the very least, the unexpected turn had shaken some of the pursuit team for the time being.  It wasn’t long before the roar of the engines started up again, but Viktor was done playing games with speed.  He called Phichit down to execute as many manuals as he thought could help close the gap.

“Anyone shoots at that wagon, I’ll kill you,” Phichit growled.  “Seung Gil and I will handle it. Speed and defense are your focus right now.”

“Got it,” said Viktor and Guang Hong in unison.

It was a chore keeping the machine upright as Viktor hurtled through brush and rough terrain.  At least he didn’t have to worry about anyone on the underside anymore. He let his gut steer and leaned his whole weight into the gas, eye trained on the wagon’s rear window.  They were getting closer, slowly but surely creeping up on the wide spiked bumper, but it seemed Yuuri would hold his own until they got there. Tools in his fists, he swung wildly at the Ursers who grabbed him, knocking a few off the vehicle and landing a few terrific blows on the others.

“Cut off the generator,” Phichit ordered.  “Three silver toggles.”

They must have had a power return system employed to keep batteries charged.  Viktor flipped off the three toggles in sequence as determined by an arrow fashioned on the ceiling above them with adhesive tape.  

It was exactly what they needed.  Viktor pulled up along the driver side of the wagon.  Before he could swing his head around to check if they were in line, Phichit and Seung Gil were already diving through the open windows into the wagon below. Viktor watched the car fishtail and swerve as limbs swung and bodies were thrown.  Every motion of Phichit’s arms was followed by shimmering trail of bright red blood. The dark-eyed Magpie, Seung Gil, hung off one side of the vehicle, grinding someone’s face into the dirt, painting the ground red in a long, vivid stripe behind him.

_ Just who had Viktor fallen in with? _   These men cut their way through their oppressors like paper.  They were some of the most incredible fighters Viktor had ever witnessed, and yet had never heard of them in all his travels to the farthest outreaches of the sustainable desert.  Within a few moments, the buggy crept back alongside the cab and its occupants were pulled up. The empty car veered off into the vastness of the desert as Yuuri, Seung Gil, and Phichit tumbled into the cab, blood-spattered and stinking and gasping for breath.

“Get us back on course, make sure you shake the rest,” Phichit panted, hunched over at Yuuri’s feet.  “Shit, that was a lot. Yuuri, I’m so sorry.”

“Peach, I’m fine,” Yuuri breathed from behind Viktor.  “I was fine. It’s fine.”

Everyone was silent for a moment.  The grind of the war machine’s wheel was all Viktor heard as he pulled around to do a wide loop back.  He was going to have to lose Celestino somehow, and it was probably going to have to involve crossing his old path and putting The Kingdom between himself and Celestino.  He kept sharp watch on his sides as he went as the Magpies debriefed in hushed tones around him.

“So what, this Urser is just one of us now?” Phichit asked incredulously.  “Your guys just tried to take my mechanic; why should I trust you?”

Guang Hong spoke up.  “He was a prisoner, Peach.  We were split up before you found me.”

Phichit climbed up into the front and sprawled out next to Viktor, his feet on the dash.  “That so? You ran plastics with Ji?”

“We were a team,” Leo replied calmly.  “We—we were partners.”

“You’re lucky I trust Ji,” Phichit said with a snort.  “Keep your head down for me, ok? I’m already on the radar in a pretty big way.  Which reminds me—” He snatched a pair of binoculars from the dash and popped up into the passenger turret for a moment.  A few rounds echoed through the desert before he returned, his self-satisfied laughter filling the confined space. “That’s all the little guys.  Any chance the armors have some secret boost I don’t know about, uhhh—”

“—Leo,” Guang Hong filled in.

“Leo!”

“I don’t know, man, I was just a pawn,” Leo mumbled.  “That was Celestino’s tank.”

“We should be clear if we run serpentine,” Viktor interjected, checking his mirrors for any lingering hint trouble.  “That thing’s a brute, but it was a hasty build. It’s barely maneuverable.”

The cab went silent once again, and even with his eyes on the road Viktor could feel the stares boring into the back of his head.  He set his jaw and kept looking ahead.

“As much as that information is appreciated, Warlord, I think it’s time you took up your post again.”

“Phichit—” Yuuri protested.

“What?!  He saves your ass once and all of a sudden you forget why he’s here in the first place?”

“Yuuri’s right, Peach, we’re above torture,” Seung Gil said calmly.  “You nearly killed him that first leg.”

“And the world would be better for it,” Phichit snapped, his eyes darting incredulously around at his comrades’ faces.  “Fine. Fine,” he groaned. “Warlord, when you think we’re out of range, brake for a quick stop. Don’t turn anything off.  We’ll put him up with the cargo.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri breathed bitterly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up July 12th and features music by Little Axe!


	4. Down to the Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh sinners, let's go down  
> Down to the valley to pray

**[4\. Down to the Valley](https://open.spotify.com/track/1tmrsUvxufWT7V3i5iACRr) **

 

The cargo was nothing at all like Viktor had imagined.

Most of his stops out on the road turn up trailers full of truly illegal contraband—potables, fuel, wood, and the like.  Every now and again he’d come across a stash of crude, but Yakov had the known wells so tightly in his grip he’d nearly run all of them dry.  Some folks got creative, pressing oil out of whatever they could get their hands on and trying to run it in a diesel engine. Sometimes it worked.  Sometimes it ruined a perfectly good engine.

The Magpies ran… well, nothing _illegal._   Not in the typical sense, anyway.  Viktor knew when the door opened to the stinking trailer that he’d have found one way or another to seize this particular haul.

A burning, methanous stench was followed by the sound of all manner of chirping, barking, whistling, and mewling.  Rows of bolsters and blankets lined the walls, and above them at least two dozen animals were tethered by leather harnesses to keep them from flying around during transit.  Dogs, goats, cats, even a few rodents found their way into Phichit’s possession, the latter kept in cages that hung from wide ties at all four corners to keep them from swinging.

“Lots of folks have been looking for ways to cut back on consumption,” Guang Hong explained, leading Viktor in.  “Which means lots of pets are abandoned or worse every day because they’re another mouth to feed.”

Viktor swallowed hard.  He had never considered his companionship with Makkachin a burden or an extra expense… Then again, he had been living in pleasant exemption to The Head’s innumerable taxes and rations.  And he couldn’t deny that even when times were hard, Makkachin always came first. He’d starve before he let her feel the slightest discomfort.

A high-pitched whine cut through the rest of the commotion around them and Viktor snapped his head up to see deep brown eyes and silver-beige curls begging in his direction from the farthest tie-down.

 _“Makka,”_ he breathed, falling to his knees and crawling the remainder of the distance between him and his dog without an ounce of shame or self-awareness.  “My girl, oh my God, you have her.”

“She’ll go somewhere safe after… You know.  The handoff,” Guang Hong mumbled. “Anyway, enjoy your ride with her while you can.”

The crew had convinced Phichit to keep Viktor in front cuffs for the rest of the run, insisting that with them behind his back there was no way to self-preserve on the rough road ahead.  Once the door slammed shut and the latch sounded from the other side, Viktor sat back against the front wall and listened to the shouting match that ensued.

“Oh, so he’s a tyrant _and_ a traitor!  You’re making a great case for him, Yuu, you really are!”

“I’m just saying, he saved our asses back there—he saved my _life.”_

“Seung Gil and I saved your life, the tyrant drove.”

“Look,” Yuuri yelled, “I’ll run your machine— _my_ machine, by the way—but I will not be complicit in using lives as leverage!  Those are warlord tactics, Peach! What makes us any better than him if we would bargain him away like some valuable artifact or something?”

“My family was traded away for protection from The Head’s greedy hands only for General Nikiforov to sweep through and seize and strip every inch of my city.  I don’t give a shit about his life, Yuuri, I want _reparations._   I watched my family claw at the ground as they were dragged into a Rusker war machine.  I _need_ vindication.”

Viktor’s stomach sank.  He remembered more than one arrangement like that.  It was a common tactic in letting down a community’s guard in order to overpower them.  He hadn’t just done that. He’d done it routinely, to city after city.

He thought he might be sick.  His head swam with the smell of waste and the all-too-familiar guilt that tore at his sternum.

“The Head and his men have harmed all of us, Phichit.  There’s not a single person aboard who doesn’t have a story like yours,” Yuuri pressed.  “I thought this was what I wanted, but something feels wrong. If this is how you’re going to find vindication, maybe I’ll stay when we make our next drop at Yutopia.”

There was no response.  The cab was silent for a few moments, and then a bang knocked Viktor back as the door to the trailer burst open.

Yuuri rushed in, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his side.  In the light that flooded in before the door swung shut behind him, Viktor could see the bright, clean stripes where his tears had washed the dirt from his cheeks.  He scanned the trailer for a moment, but when his eyes fell on Viktor he moved on pure impulse.

“You…” he spat, launching himself forward with fist cocked and ready.

Viktor rolled, careful to avoid the menagerie around him, but Yuuri was quick to follow.  As Viktor spun to face him, he was met with a boot to the stomach that sent him staggering backwards.  Before he could regain his footing, Yuuri was on him and swinging. Strong thighs trapped his arms against his chest as blow after blow made contact with Viktor’s face, his temples, any bit of flesh that was open and vulnerable.

Viktor gathered all the energy he could muster and thrust his arms upward.  He managed to knock Yuuri off his balance just enough to stand and sweep the mechanic’s legs, knocking him to the floor.  They tussled like this for a few minutes, a pas de deux in which they kept switching lead. Viktor did his best to take a strictly defensive stance, parrying when he could and taking full hits when he couldn’t.  

His head throbbed.  He struggled to maintain his composure as the war machine lurched forward.  The pain leached down into his shoulders and his spine, seeped into his stomach where it churned and turned with every little jostle.  

“What’s wrong with you?” Yuuri cried through gritted teeth, his fingers pressing into his forehead as he collapsed back onto the floor.  “Fight me back, you _coward!”_   He kneaded his knuckles into his temples in frustration, knocking his makeshift glasses askew and revealing velveteen eyes that were magnified and illuminated with tears.

“You’re above an unfair fight, Yuuri,” Viktor murmured, letting himself fall to his knees.  “I’m not. You’re right. I’m a coward.”

“Why not just kill me?” Yuuri sniffed, his chest heaving as he attempted to wipe his cheeks dry with the back of a gloved hand.  “You could. Right now. No one would even hear, probably. You could kill all of us if you wanted.”

Viktor nodded.  The motion made the room spin.

“So why don’t you?”

“Why don’t you want your friend to kill _me?”_ Viktor posited, pinching at the bridge of his nose.  “Seems like it’d solve a lot of problems.”

Yuuri pushed himself up on his elbows, glaring.

“From what I can tell, the problems you’ve caused are beyond a simple solution,”  Yuuri said. “I don’t know how much is rumor and how much is truth.” He wiped at his cheeks with open palms.  “All I know is what you did to my city. And Phichit’s. And Guang Hong’s. And Seung Gil’s. And, what? And more?”

“Much more,” Viktor replied without even thinking.

Having to watch the horror dawn on Yuuri’s face as he slowly understood what that meant was a pain more profound than anything Viktor had sustained so far that day.

“How much more?” he asked cautiously.

What was Viktor supposed to say?  That it’d been almost a decade since he lost count of his kills?  That it didn’t necessarily matter what was rumor or truth because he could hardly remember anyway?  That some of the rumors were so much more palatable than the things he’d actually done, the atrocities he’d actually performed in the interest of staying alive?  He licked his lips, the skin cracked and sharp against his tongue. The metallic taste of blood flooded his senses for a moment.

“More than I’d like to admit,” he whispered.

“Too bad,” Yuuri muttered, falling back once more.  “Start talking. I want to know everything.”

Viktor scooted up to sitting right next to where his Makka was tethered and let himself get lost in the gentle silk of her fur.  The urgent edge in Yuuri’s voice was more than unsettling, it was _compelling,_ and that was scarier than a lot that had happened so far.  Viktor wasn’t sure why he was still putting up with insolence.  He had power, the Magpies didn’t. It would take nothing for him take charge of the operation, turn them around, and use them as another advantage over Yakov.

He chewed his tongue restlessly, letting Makkachin sniff and fuss over his ears and chin, unsure where he would even start.

“Look, we’re here for hours, and unless there’s trouble I’m staying in here with the cargo,” Yuuri muttered.  “You might as well talk.”

Viktor sighed.  “I fought for The Citadel to escape work in the mines after I was taken from my parents in Old Rusk,” he began.  “Anything I earned from my service went to them. I thought… I thought the more power I had, the better I could protect them.  I did whatever I could to ensure I was the best in everything I did—combat training, education, whatever challenge was presented.  It didn’t take long for me to lose sight of my intentions.”

“Power is a devilish thing,” Yuuri chimed in.

Viktor hummed in agreement.  “Then I was seventeen and headstrong and hungry to prove myself, and Yakov’s top general defected—killed a bunch of folks and kidnapped Yakov’s grandson and fled.  Neither of them was ever found. That was the first time I was asked to do something… I don’t know, dark. Wrong. Something I knew from the start was reprehensible.  When they weren’t found in the Urser Downs, Yakov gave the order to level the city. There were no debts, there was no conflict, nothing but rage. When my commander wouldn’t follow through, I was the first to step forward.  Backing out wasn’t an option. The best men followed orders.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Yuuri argued.

“It made sense to those that mattered,” Viktor said.  The words felt callous and hollow coming from his lips.  “I followed those orders four more times before that operation was abandoned.  My actions were lauded and I was given my commander’s post. I built a reputation for making hard moves, following any orders, and asking no questions.”

Viktor didn’t know how long they talked.  He spelled out every raid he could remember:  Tenet, Chain, Eura. Those three he executed as a commander, but it was his first raid on the Switser territory that earned him the title General Nikiforov and his new, dignified crop of clean, shimmering hair.  Bath rights. Potables. A private apartment in The Citadel and comforts few alive could even dream of.  

“Everything you know about me took place after I was put in charge of trade regulations,” he mumbled into the top of Makkachin’s head, unable to dare a look up into Yuuri’s eyes.  “I was given free reign to arbitrarily assign taxes and seize supplies, and I used it in the way I thought would best benefit Yakov. Everything was for him in those days. I was intentionally harsh to show that I wasn’t afraid to take risks.  I took water from cities I knew didn’t have enough to get by. I feigned disbelief when licensed runners showed me their papers. Seized cargo and vehicles and all and left those responsible to rot in the desert.”

Viktor described the torture his victims endured, even when Yuuri couldn’t suppress the noises of discomfort it elicited.  He gave as many examples as he could. Maybe Yuuri would leave him to await judgment in peace. Maybe he’d reach his limit and break again, deliver another well-deserved beating that no one else had ever dared.  But the mechanic endured, green with unease, his limbs all twisted into uncomfortable knots as he listened.

“Tell me about my people,” he eventually blurted.  “What did you do to the Hatsets?”

“I think you already know.”

“I want to hear it,” Yuuri pressed.  “I want to hear you say it.”

Viktor could hardly remember the Hatsets.  He hated to admit that the atrocities that took place there were particularly routine.  But the amber in Yuuri’s eyes glowed golden in the half-light and burned into Viktor’s skin, imprinted themselves in his mind as he searched for his words.  

“Population quota,” he muttered, gazing down into his lap.  “So that we could take more water and still be able to claim what was left would be enough.”

“It wasn’t,” Yuuri said.  “My family was forced into exile even after you slaughtered one in every five.”

“I’m sorry,” Viktor whispered at the ground.  “I’m so sorry for everything.”

“I don’t know if I have enough information to believe that,” Yuuri admitted.  “So far you haven’t spoken much about remorse or guilt. If it didn’t matter then, why now?”

“Old Rusk,” Viktor mouthed, his voice barely audible even to himself.  “I got the order to raze and level the place where I was born. The place where my family lived.  After all those years, I’d forgotten, I’d lied to myself and told myself they didn’t matter anymore, but when the time came to choose between them and Yakov, I chose my family.  I begged for them to be spared. I laid on the floor at Yakov’s feet and wept, and I was promised their amnesty.”

The bile rose and burned in Viktor’s throat as he remembered the grim reality that he’d painted for himself.  He could still see it so vividly: doors and windows blown off their hinges, the inside of his childhood home blackened and unrecognizable, the sharp, sickening smell of burnt flesh.

He remembered his mother’s silver hair, brown and sticky with drying blood.  The golden ring that still glinted on black, burned hands. His chest tightened.  He opened his mouth to speak several times only to find that the words refused to come, his lips begging not to have to articulate such a horrible memory.

Makkachin whined, nuzzling into him with a sympathetic lick of his hand.  She really was his only comfort anymore.

“I went ahead of my fleet to warn them,” he continued slowly, carefully, as if admitting the next part too quickly might shut him down for good.  “I gave them enough time to flee to safety. I even brought them a vehicle stocked with everything they needed. When I got there, they’d already been slaughtered.  Anybody in that city that I knew or loved, cut down by my own subordinates under Yakov’s orders. Bodies dumped in the streets like waste, left there for me to find.  I was so angry I burned it all to the ground.”

Viktor watched the metal floor of the cab as tears spattered and painted it in dark spots in front of him.  Makkachin lapped consolingly at his cheeks, her breath hot and comforting against Viktor’s skin. “When I returned, he took my eye as a reminder of who gave orders and who followed.  It was my first offense in ten years and it cost me everything.”

“I lost all heart after that.  I cared about no one, least of all Yakov.  I had no reason to abandon my life of luxury, but from the security of my station I began to plot my revenge.  I had lived so long under the illusion that my value was my own, that I was appreciated—that I was _loved_ without condition or expectation, but I was wrong.  Everything I had worked for was a lie and I wanted to see it all come crashing down.  I continued to follow orders until I found my opportunity.”

He told Yuuri about his plans with Christophe, the revolution that should have been starting within the next few days, except that Viktor was tied up in the back of a war machine and Christophe was probably dead, for all he knew his men were capable of.

Yuuri was quiet for a long time.  He sat and contemplated everything Viktor had told him, his brows knit into a serious crease and his fingers playing through the matted fur of a large dog curled up at his side.

“You like dogs,” Viktor suggested hopefully, trying to break the silence and deflect all in one move.  “I… I love dogs.”

“Not enough for them to drink,” Yuuri countered.

Viktor was about to defend himself when a bang from below made them both jump.  Viktor’s eye snapped up to meet Yuuri’s, and when the commotion beneath them continued, the mechanic motioned for Viktor to follow and crept over to a trapdoor on the far end of the trailer.

Viktor could hear the screech of metal and the rumble of an engine underneath his feet as Yuuri’s hand hovered, flapping uselessly over the door’s latch.

“Boarders?” Viktor mouthed urgently.  Yuuri nodded with a worried frown.

The engine and the screeching both stopped within a few moments, and Viktor could make out the faint hint of voices arguing urgently in hushed tone.  He thought they might be speaking Rusk, and he felt his insides turn to ice as he considered the possibility that they’d been found once more.

Yuuri threw open the latch and the door in one swift motion and dropped himself down into the lower hull with barely a sound.  A loud _thunk_ and an onslaught of Rusker curses followed.  Viktor could hear Yuuri struggle against the new intruders and dove down himself, only to make contact with studded leather and a well-timed fist that found its mark just below Viktor’s ribs.  Coughing and sputtering, Viktor slung the chain of his handcuffs around the strong throat of the attacker and held taut and ready—not enough to harm, only to warn.

Beside him, Yuuri already had his assailant on the ground, spitting and swearing uselessly.  Yuuri had produced a length of flexible cable from somewhere on his person and was in the process of binding the young Rusker’s hands when Viktor realized just who they’d apprehended.

 _“Yura,”_ he breathed.  He kept his tone cautiously neutral, acutely aware of Otabek’s solid form straining against him and of the strength he possessed.  Viktor kept his words calm, murmuring in low, even Rusk. _“Did I not tell you to be patient?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will go up on July 17th and will feature music from Ohmme.


	5. Bully Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Golden amber fills my belly  
> and quiets all my inhibitions  
> So I go run up to the leader  
> And tell him all about my visions  
> Tell him how I saw a smile  
> Fall upon a face unkind  
> I said what I had thought a while:  
> "You're happier when we are dying."

**[5\. Bully Clouds](https://open.spotify.com/track/3Xs6FWWaROlPgRocOdwUQM) **

 

With the chain of his cuffs testing and threatening against Otabek’s windpipe, Viktor put on his standard work face.  Unaffected, even bored, he watched his young compatriot writhe and fight against his bonds. Of course, it was all a façade.  Viktor could barely breathe amid the smell of oil and animal and rust.  _ “Relax, Yura.” _

_ “I don’t take orders from traitors,”  _ Yuri hissed, writhing and fighting against his bonds.  He swung a long leg around, flipping himself over and smashing his boot into Yuuri’s stomach with a sharp  _ thud. _ _ “This is just your fucking thing, huh?  Instead of standing for anything you’ll fight for whoever captures you?” _

_ “Don’t talk about things you don’t—“ _ Viktor started, but Otabek braced himself against his arms and made to roll, sending Viktor tumbling awkwardly over his back.  Pain erupted in Viktor’s left side as he was sent crashing into a vehicle behind him. He wasted no time in springing back to his feet and lunging at Otabek once more, knocking the rogue off his feet and scrambling to pin his arms the way Yuuri had done to him not too long before.  

The mechanic was already making quick work of Yuri’s feet, pausing only to kick a nearby box of electrical wire scrap in Viktor’s direction.  

_ “How much did you pay this pig to help you flee?” _ Yuri snarled into the dirt-caked floor.   _ “Or are you just playing with these ones until they let their guard down?” _

It was sickening down below the haul, in the same way smelling something delicate and floral in the high heat was sickening, sweet and heady and overpowering.  Viktor may have been a little too forceful in the way he pressed his knee into Otabek’s back as he fashioned quick ties out of black cord.  _ “I was captured, Yura _ — _ you were there.” _

“You know these guys?” Yuuri asked curiously, picking through Yuri’s pockets and discarding anything that might be considered a weapon.  He’d already accumulated a sizeable pile of blades.

Viktor stood, a little too satisfied with how his assailant twisted and struggled at his feet.  “Compatriots from Old Rusk,” he grumbled. “They’ve been on my case for the past few moons, tagging along at my heels with empty threats and deliberately pulled shots.”

_ “Oi,” _ Yuri protested, annoyance thick in his voice.

“Oh?  It’s not deliberate?” Viktor sneered.  “Is your aim actually that bad?”

The Rusker teen floundered and kicked as another stream of curses erupted from his lips.

“You have every right to hate me,” Viktor said quietly.  “But without me, you’ll never stop Yakov.” He turned seriously toward Yuuri.  “That means you too. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to convince your friend to abandon his trade deal or whatever it is you have planned.  But if you can find it in yourselves to trust me, I will do everything in my power to make sure we—”

He stopped.  Time stopped, really, everything suspended in one stunned moment as Viktor realized the sickly sweet smell that swirled in his head was not his imagination but  _ real— _ and familiar.  

And if that was the case, the Magpies had about two minutes to man stations before they were overrun.

“We have to move,  _ now,” _ he said suddenly, urgently springing off a nearby ledge and hoisting himself back up into the main trailer.  “Go tell Phichit you’re about to have trouble.”

“How do you—” Yuuri started, but Viktor watched the startled realization sweep across his face.  “Stay down if you think they’re looking for you. I’m driving.”

He darted away with surprising speed, leaving Viktor in the animal haul once again to consider his next move.  The smell of jasmine was undeniable now. Yuuri was right; Viktor was surely being targeted, but it wouldn’t do to stay below and let everyone else manage.  Negotiation was his strength, after all. He needed to confront their pursuer before anyone made a move. 

By the time Viktor managed to surface from the haul, Yuuri was already up in the cab and taking the wheel from a harried Phichit.  The Magpies’ leader was snatching up ammo with rage burning in his dark eyes, barking orders at his crew to take up post. Viktor took advantage of the chaos, not even bothering to enter the cab and instead using his cuffs to pull himself up to the top of the rig.

It was dark, the expanse of the desert a deep, purpling blue.  Without the sun bearing down on them from overhead, the landscape was deceptively cool.  The desert at night always seemed to calm Viktor, even at his most frantic, and tonight was no exception.

Except, of course, that a fleet of nearly thirty wagons was quickly overtaking them.  The war machine was already flanked by four, the nearest two of which hovered precariously alongside the trailer, poised and ready to go for tires or siding or whatever they could get their hands on.

He didn’t think, only began shouting down to the others what he could see—wagons: twenty-some strong, about half of them armored and all of them enhanced in one way or another with demolition machinery.  Viktor counted a few flaming rams, a crane arm to rival the Magpies’ own, and a back row of cannons fast approaching. 

And then in the middle of it all, like a phantasm, the stark glow of pristine white sails stood out in sharp relief against the endless night—two beacons signaling an inescapable fate.  Those sails were a gift from Viktor to a friend and ally. They were sturdy and clean and treated with the finest Rusker perfume so that when Commander Christophe Giacommetti rolled across the desert, his scent would carry on the wind and signal his arrival.

Christophe stood with boots planted on a wide, low flatbed wagon that rode rocker-boogie suspension to cut across the desert swiftly and smoothly.

As if sailing on water.

The Switser general was always over-the-top with his aesthetics.  Viktor had to laugh; he honestly couldn’t determine if the large aluminum fans behind him were strictly for propulsion or if Chris enjoyed the added windswept touch they afforded him.  In any case, his muslin cape fluttered and whipped around his bare chest and billowed out from behind him, casting an imposing silhouette against those sails. Highly romantic, thoroughly confusing, and strangely appealing.  It was a calculated move on his part, a set of intimidation tactics that magnified his image beyond standard expectations and caused unsuspecting prey to drop their guard.  

Viktor was not unsuspecting prey, however, and Viktor was not afraid of Chris.  In fact, his only option if he was going to spare the Magpies was going to have to be boarding that untenable wagon before an order went out.  He had to explain his unfortunate circumstances, talk his friend down and hope to God or lack thereof that Georgi hadn’t done anything irreparable after his kidnapping.

He could swing one of their flanking buggies around and be aboard the landship in moments.

“Warlord, get back here!  Warlord!” Phichit’s shouts echoed behind him as he took off down the length of the trailer, his eye on an open-top wagon directly to their rear.  Normally this kind of combat would be standard procedure; seizure of property, expulsion of driver, and Viktor would be in control. This time, however, was different.  Viktor was definitely more than a little concussed this time, and significantly dehydrated, and for the half-moment’s suspension in the air following his flying leap, Viktor had no bodily sense of where he’d land.  Or which way was  _ up, _ for that matter.  He came down hard on the wagon’s hood, thankfully upright, and saw the swing of a chain towards his left temple in just enough time to catch it on his forearm.  The moment the metal links were wrapped around, Viktor pulled, sending the driver tumbling over the side, and vaulted himself over the steering column in his place.

He let go immediately; dragging one of Chris’ subordinates all the way up to the flatbed would be slightly in conflict with his intended message.  He did not want this to be a fight if he could help it. At least if the militant was chewed up under the tires of the other vehicles that blew past, it would be on his own men’s hands, not Viktor’s.

He threw the buggy in reverse as a chain from an adjacent car came down hard on the hood, sliding down to drag behind its wielder uselessly.  Viktor had to trust his gut; there was no time to circle back and drive with caution now, especially with the Switsers’ attention now on him. He found his opening and floored it, completely twisting around in his seat and training his gaze on a single man in front of him.  

“General,” Christophe drawled, his voice booming over the deafening whir of his fans.  “How lucky we can finally meet.”

Viktor pulled as close to the front of the flatbed wagon as he could before throwing his little buggy into drive and jumping, sending it careening forward and away.  Chris caught his arm as he attempted to board, and Viktor could tell from the man’s grip that they were not quite on friendly terms.

“Commander, you have to call off your men,” Viktor rasped, falling onto his stomach on the ground at Chris’ feet.  “I was intercepted before I could get to you. These folks… they’re with us…”

“No, no,” Chris tutted, flicking a tightly-braided bullwhip impatiently at his side.  “I don’t know that there is an  _ us _ anymore, General, after the shameful conduct of your fleet within my territory’s borders.  I’d say that machine we’re trailing is with  _ you, _ and that would make anyone in it  _ my _ enemy.”

“Please,” Viktor begged, daring to look up into hazel-green eyes and discovering with horror that there was no sympathy to be found within them.  “Please, I never intended—”

_ “You never intended,” _ Chris spat.  “I don’t care what you intended, Viktor, your men came down on my town with full raid protocol.  My healing centers are overwhelmed with casualties and my surplus is on its way back to The Head as we speak.  I don’t know how you  _ intended _ on making good on your promise, when your men apparently were not given  _ any _ word regarding peace between us.”

“They were told to wait,” Viktor growled.  “Chris, there isn’t time. These rogues aren’t worth your manpower.  Just call off—”

“It’s interesting you say that,” Chris mused.  Viktor was beginning to get frustrated at how easily Chris had gained this leverage on him.  “And don’t get me wrong, I am so grateful they’ve saved me the time and trouble of having to cuff you myself.  But if you’ve just escaped them and they truly are your captors, you should find no harm in my relieving you of them.”

“Chris—”

“It’s the least I can do before I turn you in to Yakov in exchange for the peaceful return of Switser,” Christophe said with a dark smile.  “You don’t seem to be in any position to fight, so get comfortable.”

 

* * *

  
  


“That  _ ass!” _ Phichit snarls, furiously loading ammo into a collection of weapons hanging from his torso, his movements so quick Yuuri can barely follow them.  “I can’t believe you fell for that shit.”

Yuuri couldn’t believe it either.  Gods, Yuuri couldn’t believe he could be drawn in so easily—so  _ readily _ —by some tears and a sob story and the sight of a sickly warlord snuggling weakly with his dog.  He’d really thought for a moment when Viktor helped him apprehend those Ruskers that maybe there was a hint of truth in his words.  And he could have sworn the fear in his voice, his shallow, choked breaths as the sultry scent of their pursuer rolled over them… He could have sworn it was real.

None of it was real.  Yuuri was too willing to hope, too quick to trust, and now Viktor—the  _ warlord _ —was safe on an enemy wagon and making no effort to stop them.

All Yuuri had been to him was leverage, when it was all said and done.  All he’d been was the weakest link, the easy pull, a sympathy machine whose controls Viktor was all too familiar with.  Phichit had given him warning after warning, but Yuuri just  _ had _ to follow his doubts, didn’t he?  Heaven forbid he open up and trust his friends before falling in with the desert’s most feared and despised general.  Heaven forbid he just stick to the value set that gave birth to this mission in the first place.

“I’m sorry, Phich,” Yuuri mumbled, silently cursing the complicated system of switches and toggles he’d put in place to use the stupid crane arm he just  _ had _ to have on the back of his rig.  At least it was being put to use after going unneeded for so long; he just hoped he hadn’t been too neglectful in its upkeep, that the joints wouldn’t protest too much.  “I’ll get him, just set me up.”

“You move that thing too soon and they’ll be onto us,” Phichit warned, loading the pockets of his coat with fistfuls of whatever was lying around in their ammo box.  “On my call, no sooner.”

“Roger that,” Yuuri said through gritted teeth as he plowed through a wagon trying to board from the front.  The spiked cowcatcher tore through the rear engine  _ and _ the two men perched atop it.  Yuuri flicked the steering wheel to the right to shake off the crumpled remains of the vehicle and watched it slip away in the rear-view mirror.  Bikers swerved, some spinning out, to avoid collision.

Yuuri could see Viktor still lying prone on the rocker-boogie wagon next to that unimaginable, towering man with the bullwhip.  How badly Yuuri wanted to throw the machine in reverse, to barrel full-throttle into them and that stupid fleet head. But the cargo was too important.  The cargo came above all. He would wait and let Phichit and Seung Gil handle it.

Phichit picked off pawns expertly from his perch atop the double trailer.  Yuuri watched as bikes and wagons peeled off, their occupants scrambling to regain control but ultimately falling behind in the wastes.  Phichit wasn’t like Ji, their precision sniper. He hit his mark, but Guang Hong could determine in a fraction of a second whether his target should be tires or temples and bury a bullet dead in the center.  Phichit’s specialty was hand-to-hand combat, however, and from a tether he’d developed at the top of the rig he rappelled its sides and grappled with anyone who tried to get close. Yuuri had seen him pull drivers straight from belted seats without hesitation or struggle.

Guang Hong was a silent storm.  Phichit was a hurricane underneath a cloudless sky, raining thunder down on anyone who dared face him.  

And Yuuri was…  _ gods, _ he didn’t know.  A burden? Obviously he lent his engineering skills and kept them rolling, but… what did he even stand for?  What had he done until now except get caught and let their charge slip from his grasp?

“I don’t get it,” Leo said, poking his head in from the driver’s side turret to reload.  “I just told him he’s got a bounty on his head. Why’s he trying to go back?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Yuuri grumbled.  “He’s not going to escape us.”

He owed Phichit that much.  He was going to make good on this for being so stupid in the first place.  Viktor was their captive… their enemy… their oppressor. Yuuri had been a fool to be so free with his pity, to think that justice could be so black-and-white as that.  Viktor hadn’t done a thing to harm them his entire time in their charge, but that did not make Viktor good. Phichit’s heart was full of anger and hate, but that did not make Phichit evil.  Phichit did not burn cities only to ride off and enjoy the spoils of war. Phichit took back what had been taken and wrought vengeance upon those responsible.

Yuuri just ensured the meek would inherit the earth.  Yuuri drove the tired and poor through the desert for forty days and forty nights until they found a land flowing with milk and honey.  There would be feasting and dancing in Yutopia. And Yuuri would make it until then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be up on July 22nd and will feature music by TuNe-YaRdS!


	6. RiotRiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a freedom in violence that I don't understand  
> and like I've never felt before...

**[6\. RiotRiot](https://open.spotify.com/track/1ac9DO1oWMcDTno437xphq) **

 

Seung Gil watched Yuuri slowly unraveling at the wheel and realized he was probably supposed to apply some manner of moral support while he managed navigation and in-cab security.

Ji and the Urser were eliminating attackers on each side with fair consistency, though if one was anything like the other, they’d be useless when it came to close-range combat and even more so with interpersonal struggles.  Ji was all quiet analytics and cautious optimism. Yuuri was just like Phichit—all chaos. Seung Gil figured the two must have needed one another to keep from getting too comfortable, too complacent. But it all seemed to come to a head the moment they got their hands on that damn warlord.

To be honest, the only issue with Nikiforov at this point was getting him back on the rig before this chase got too out of hand.  All things considered, the Rusker general looked like he was on his last limbs  _ before _ he pulled those acrobatics that liberated him from the Magpies’ grasp.  Now, lying on the flatbed of the most ridiculous and impractical landsail Seung Gil had ever seen, Nikiforov seemed smaller than the reputation that preceded him.  To see that broad body crumpled and spent at the feet of that enigmatic Switser was even more surreal than it had been to see it displayed proudly at the front of their war machine.

Seung Gil was not sure Yuuri was right in feeling betrayed.  The Urser had a good point. Nikiforov had dragged death behind him for so much of his life, and now it loomed in the distance no matter where he turned—and the wrath of The Head would be far more than they or The King would ever be capable of.  

_ If, _ Seung Gil thought,  _ if _ Nikiforov felt some need to return to The Citadel, some urge strong enough to risk the hellfire that would rain down on him from all sides, it would be born from stubbornness, foolishness, or vengeance.  All three were dangerous, and all three were plausible.

But if it was vengeance… that would make him an ally, wouldn’t it?  That last fight they pulled with the subordinates from The Citadel had seemed to spark something in the warlord.  He’d fought alongside the Magpies without question. He’d spared no thought in making their lives his priority. Could his misdirection and departure really be a betrayal when he’d taken his already-blackened name and set it ablaze, evading ‘rescue’ from The Head’s allies?  He’d be dead upon return, or worse.  

It struck Seung Gil that for what it was worth, the Magpies might have been all General Viktor Nikiforov had left.

“You don’t know that he isn’t trying to call off this pursuit,” he said, examining the restless discomfort his words evoked in Yuuri’s face.  

“Since when do you play devil’s advocate?” Yuuri grumbled, re-activating the power return feed.  “You know before this happened we had two boarders down below? Ruskers. Compatriots. For all we know, they’re all part of his plan.”  He huffed, slamming buttons as he deployed their rear-end rotary blades. “They spoke Rusk the whole time. They could have been saying anything.”

“Yuuri, he saved your life.  What reason would he have to—”

“You and Phichit saved my life,” Yuuri snapped, wheeling around to glare at Seung Gil.  “The warlord drove.” His eyes, magnified and multiplied by his makeshift glasses, were like flames encased in precious stone.

Annoyance gripped Seung Gil by the jaw, tightening and twisting until he was grinding his teeth.  He realized with a start that he’d been fiddling with his rifle’s safety, switching it on and off in his lap.  “We never could have done it without him. Phichit knows it too, underneath all his pride.”

“You’ve gone soft,” Yuuri said with a humorless laugh.

Seung Gil laughed too, but in earnest.  “You always were soft, gearhead. We deal in justice, not hatred.”

“What does it matter?  The King is going to have him by dawn.”

“If he’s an ally,” Seung Gil mused, gazing back at the landsail wagon, “don’t you think he’d be our most powerful weapon against The Head?”

Yuuri sighed.  “He told me we intercepted a deal he was about to make with the Switser commander,” he admitted.  “They were going to mutiny.”

“Your trust is one of your best qualities,” Seung Gil said.  “We need someone like that. Don’t let it go.”

Yuuri snorted.  He was silent after that, his eyes darting from the open road ahead to the rear view mirrors with every blast of cannonfire.

A wagon on truck wheels caught Seung Gil’s attention on the passenger side as the last of the bikers either retreated or were lost to the desert.  He’d seen it at the start of their pursuit, traveling tightly alongside the flatbed, its exterior in shimmering purple practically cloaking it in the half-light.  Its driver was yet to be seen, but as it neared, Seung Gil could make out the silhouette of a woman protruding from the sun roof, her long, black hair whipping wildly around her face as she flexed two imposing iron gauntlets.  Whether they were weapons or prosthetics, Seung Gil couldn’t tell. Two full iron sleeves were held on by leather belts that crossed over the woman’s chest, and Seung Gil watched each finger flex independently of one another, each elbow and wrist joint move with a full range of motion.  They didn’t seem to be slowing her down any.

A warning shot from Ji struck the wagon’s front fender just in front of the driver, but still they inched closer.  Seung Gil could make out a similar plate of armor over the driver’s chest.

He knew these two fighters, called  _ The Crispino Twins _ \--a pair of mercenaries who at one time had Seung Gil cornered during a routine arms deal almost a year before.  Sara, the woman, had tailed him for weeks attempting to find proof enough of his transgressions that she could take him back to The Citadel.  It was rumored she swore loyalty to no one and nothing and sought only what interested her. Her twin, the driver, took her wherever she desired.

Seung Gil had run a clean operation in his day—clean enough to never get caught, at least, but he knew Phichit had no patience for such things.  He watched as his leader maneuvered down to the wagon, the red lenses of his goggles flaring in the headlights, and engaged the pair, swinging in to get a hit on Michele before turning his attention to his opponent up top.

The iron sleeves moved quickly despite how unwieldy they looked.  Phichit bobbed and dodged, often using Sara’s swings as leverage to add torque to his own blows.  Seung Gil froze, unable to even warn Yuuri to be prepared to pull off, because as the moonlight glinted off the Crispino woman’s gauntlets, he noticed the subtle curve of their fingers, each one blunt and studded at the knuckle but sharpened at the tip into sharp claws.  Phichit could not spare one hit without risking serious injury.  

Seung Gil could practically see the purple in Sara’s menacing eyes as she climbed out of the wagon to fight properly, throwing her weight into Phichit so swiftly that the two of them toppled off the roof of her vehicle and swung precariously toward the side of the wagon.  Sara landed with two feet firmly on the side of the war machine, gripping the steel cable to which Phichit had rigged himself and whipping it to the side, sending the Magpies’ leader flailing in midair.

“Be prepared to act fast,” Seung Gil breathed to Yuuri.  “Phichit brought someone back with him.”

“Does he need an assist?” Yuuri shot back, eyes fixed straight ahead.

“Not possible, he’s on his cable,” Seung Gil muttered.  He couldn’t admit the truth—this woman scared him more than most opponents he’d encountered out on the road, the way she commanded attention and risked everything to meet her goals.  The way she’d always known just where to find him back then. It was practically suicide to show his face now, having shaken her off so long ago. He knew Phichit could hold his own, but if he were to flounder, Seung Gil figured he’d have to push through his apprehension to push in.

The trailer’s siding resonated thunder as Phichit came down hard on his shoulder, bouncing and scrambling underneath Sara as she toyed with the cable.  The Euran mercenary laughed, sharp and shrill enough to carry all the way into the cab, and reached down, her iron claws digging into Phichit’s shoulder as she pulled him back up.  Phichit writhed in her grip, his face pulled tight in a sickening grimace, his feet kicking out in an attempt to compromise her purchase.

Seung Gil watched something mechanical within the arm whir as Phichit fought, and the iron fist of the Crispino woman broke past the barrier of his leather jacket, tearing into it with ease and wrenching an involuntary shriek from Phichit’s throat.

_ Shit. _

“Nevermind, he’s in trouble.”  Seung Gil sprang from his station and bolted, unthinking as he pulled himself up and out of the cab by way of Guang Hong’s turret.  The sniper was watching the altercation carefully, his rifle trained in their direction.

“They’re too close, I can’t—” he started, but Seung Gil didn’t linger to hear the rest, using the protective rail to propel himself up and onto the trailer.  A voice in the back of his head was screaming at him about ‘stupid’ and ‘tunnel vision’ and ‘too risky’, but all Seung Gil could see was the dark, shining smear on the side of the rig.  Phichit’s face was pale, dazed and panicked as he fought weakly against the mechanical limb. His legs still kicked, but toward little end other than to keep on fighting.

Sara hung from the cable, anchored now by her hold on Phichit and empowered with every hapless attempt he made at a parry.  Seung Gil could see the dark flecks that had sprayed across her face and he burned even hotter, unaware of anything beyond the rapidly closing space that separated him from exactly what he had to do.

He dove towards the cable before even stopping to think of the state of his bare hands, and fire erupted under his fingertips as he plummeted down over the side of the rig.  He must have screamed, had to have, because both Phichit’s and Sara’s faces snapped up in his direction, both frozen in their confusion. Seung Gil struggled to hold onto the cable, fighting against the searing pain to be the strength Phichit needed, and heaved one last, grounding breath before his boots made contact with the woman’s chest.

 

* * *

 

_ “Phichit!” _

The shriek cut through the night above even the roar of the engines, and Yuuri could just barely see why in his rearview as Seung Gil plunged over the side of the trailer.  Both snipers jumped from their posts, leaving Yuuri alone to watch the struggle that hung from the side of his rig, Seung Gil clawing desperately at the black-haired woman’s chest, Phichit hanging limp between them.

Yuuri groaned hopelessly.  “No, no, no…”  He stifled his impulse to jerk and swerve out of range of the battle wagon.  He was almost perfectly lined up with the flatbed to extract Viktor.

He was only waiting on Phichit’s call, but i t didn’t seem like that was going to be coming anytime soon.

“Shit,” Yuuri hissed, tears stinging his eyes.  He could see his desperation and fury mirrored in Seung Gil’s blind swings.  Seung Gil dove, taking advantage of the woman’s occupied hands and managing to cut loose the leather straps that kept her secured in her armor.  His knife just narrowly grazed the woman’s cheek, and Yuuri just barely caught her face twisted in pain and anger and her body slipping from its mechanical grip, before his attention was torn away by a commotion on the driver’s side.

A Euran, sandy-haired and goateed, was climbing his side of the cab, struggling somewhat to find purchase but making his ascent steadily.  Alone in the driver’s seat, Yuuri had little to defend himself without employing some of his machine’s hidden programming.

Behind him, he had the task of retrieving Viktor with the crane arm, something that will require swiftness and a fair bit of dual piloting.  To the right, his best friend and closest ally may have been dead and his most fearsome comrade might not have been far behind. To his left, he had about ten seconds to act before he was fighting off another boarder.

_ Gods, the boarders! _ Yuuri had almost forgotten; he was decidedly panicking now.  If not wasting the time to think worked for Seung Gil, it could work for him.  He played out the code for the crane manuals on an array of red switches to his left.  With a sharp inhale, he let out as loud and as piercing of a magpie call as he could muster, alerting and encouraging and intimidating all at once, and a chorus of corresponding whoops echoed in response.

There should have been two at most, based on the Urser’s inexperience and Phichit’s state of consciousness.  Yuuri reckoned he heard more though, including a new voice, somewhat delayed and rudimentary in nature, low and rasping as it was.

The surprises never seemed to stop with that warlord.

With a leap that must have taken everything in him, Viktor locked onto the crane arm and climbed.  The fleet commander lunged for him, his shouts echoing in the night as he swung his bullwhip wildly.  The leather braid caught Viktor’s waist with a sharp crack and wrapped around. Swearing under his breath, Yuuri swerved, standing on the gas and pulling ahead as quickly as he could manage.  The crane arm holding Viktor swung wildly. Yuuri thought for a sickening moment that he’d inadvertently pulled the shirtless commander along after him, but moments later the bullwhip was loosed from his grip and the landsail shrank back into the darkness behind them.

The war machine was beginning to rock with its pursuants’ attempts to break it down.  Yuuri was confident his scrap could withstand battering rams, even the flaming ones that were threatening him on either side, but he had to move quickly to ensure he didn’t lose any tires.  Behind him, the landsail wagon began to catch up, its commander now brandishing a crossbow, pacing the front end of the flatbed in a predatory rage.

When Yuuri heard the stomp of boots running along the trailer, he began cycling through all the crisis manuals he could remember, pressing buttons and turning dials until the thrum of motors around him began to die down.

The pursuit was far from finished.  Yuuri could see a swirling, smoky column looming on the horizon, and he had nothing to lose.

The sandy-haired climber had disappeared in his wake, and a commotion above informed him that Phichit’s assist was resolving in one way or another.

Yuuri had squandered away his security, taken it for granted, and refused hard stances.  He’d literally driven his friends into mortal peril, and it was his duty to drive them out.

Bootfalls on either side announced the gang’s return, and Viktor in tow, helping Seung Gil to lower Phichit into the bench seat.

Phichit looked… Yuuri could hardly hold his gaze when he looked back.  He was uncertain how much of Phichit’s arm was still attached; what remained hung in loose shreds from his shoulder, the limb swinging with unnatural freedom from the sinews that held it together.

If their roles were switched, if it were Yuuri who lay dying in the back of the cab, Phichit would have acted immediately.  So Yuuri spoke without thinking, delegating as best he could.

“Seung Gil, I want a gun on Nikiforov, but get those cuffs off him first.  Ji, you and your friend go down into the underhaul. Bring up the two Ruskers and do not under any circumstances untie their bonds.  Viktor—” He turned around with an involuntary snarl. “—this is your mess. If you want to be alive when I pass you off to The King, you’ll do everything in your power to keep him alive.”

Seung Gil’s voice was dry and dark.  “We’re too far off course. We’ll never make it to The Kingdom in time.”

“We’re not going to The Kingdom tonight,” Yuuri muttered, checking his rears once more before training his gaze straight ahead.  On the horizon, a dust storm raged, dark red and opaque, a wall that thrust itself skyward and threatened with every mile to blot out the moon.  

“Up the glass, this one’s going to get messy,” he ordered.   “We’re on our way to Yutopia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter of Part One will be up on July 27 and will feature music by Delta Rae.


	7. Bottom of the River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight  
> Drunk and driven by a devil's hunger  
> Drive your son like a railroad spike  
> Into the water, let it pull him under  
> Don't you lift him, let him drown alive  
> The good Lord speaks like a rolling thunder  
> Let that fever make the water rise  
> And let the river run dry

**[7\. Bottom of the River](https://open.spotify.com/track/2LzyUfJdRp3uqTrITBJXEY) **

 

It was tense in the cab as Yuuri pulled them through the raging storm.  Not a word was spoken. Even their two boarders sat in silence and watched as Viktor, Leo, and Guang Hong attempted to hold Phichit together as his edges frayed and his color faded.

There was no question about who was giving orders.  If anyone had any objections to Yuuri’s plan, they weren’t voiced.

Viktor figured now was not the time for objections, anyway.  As skilled as he was at tearing people like Phichit apart, he had no clue how to do the opposite— After Seung Gil had set him up with the med kit, he’d fumbled and cursed for a shameful interval of time before he finally found something he thought he could use.

Where was he supposed to start, anyway?  The air was sickening, the glass enclosures only amplifying the heat and the metallic smell of spilled blood.  There was a manual respirator. He tasked Guang Hong with keeping the man breathing; as far as they could tell, his lungs were intact.  Viktor found a stash—disturbing even in its providence—of well-insulated blood bags, each clearly labeled in different types and who they’d benefit.  Viktor wondered what measures had been taken to obtain them, whether they’d been stolen or whether each of the magpies had been drawing and collecting in preparation for moments like this.

Viktor pulled out every bag that bore Phichit’s name and began the delicate process of preparing and inserting the intravenous drip.  Next to him, Seung Gil kept pressure on the injured shoulder with a compress he’d fashioned out of everyone’s shirts, all the while keeping aim on Viktor.  The arrangement wasn’t exactly sterile, but until Viktor could figure out how to stop the flow of blood, it would have to do. They’d reached at least some degree of stability, at least, and that left him time to rifle through the med kit for answers.

How Yuuri knew where he was going, Viktor had no idea.  The war machine’s headlights blazed in vain against a wall of dust.  Everything within the cabin was illuminated in a nightmarish, clay-red glow.  Between the closed windows and the insulation from the dust all around them, they could hear no evidence of anyone following them.  They could at least be certain that Christophe was no longer in pursuit, what with his bare chest and unsheltered wagon. Form couldn’t win out over function this time.  

But the clouds obstructing their vision and the roaring drone of the wind ripped the war machine out of the context of time, space, direction, anything that could ground them.  Something twisted, restless and uneasy, in Viktor’s gut as he tried to determine if there was any more he could do. The wound was too high up on the shoulder to tourniquet, too pervasive to cauterize or suture.  He couldn’t let on how futile a battle this seemed, not until they arrived at this Yutopia place and Yuuri was out from behind the wheel. The bad news was going to be hard on everybody, but Viktor predicted the mechanic would bear the deepest cut.

Viktor desperately wanted to know what Yuuri was thinking, even as his focus was centered on Phichit, even as no one dared to break the silence.  Had anyone heard him join in on their battle cry? Is that why he’d finally been uncuffed? Whatever Yuuri’s reason, Viktor couldn’t assume it was trust—not when he was still looking down the barrel of a loaded gun at Yuuri’s orders.  He’d thought—he’d  _ hoped _ —they’d managed some semblance of common ground back in the trailer, but something had burned in Yuuri’s gaze when Viktor had finally returned to the war machine that told him he was still to tread lightly.

Not that he’d done anything to earn anyone’s trust up until now.  He had to remember just how imbalanced his feeble attempts at redemption were, how dwarfed in comparison to the unforgivable things he’d conceived and carried out over the past decade.

Viktor could only hope for grace.  And until then, he could do anything and everything in his power to be of some use.

Seung Gil suddenly gasped, a sharp intake of breath that drew Viktor’s attention to the way the man was currently clutching at a dark, damp rag.  He blotted fruitlessly at raw, shiny palms, unable to stop the shaking of his hands as he fumbled in the dark.

“Stop,” Viktor murmured, fishing in the med kit for a salve.  “You cannot expect to help without taking care of yourself first.  Here.” He found a small jar of some smooth, medicinal-smelling jelly and a few lengths of clean bandage.  He hadn’t even bothered with bandaging for Phichit. He’d run out before he made it halfway down his bicep.

Cringing, Seung Gil took the jar and began to spread the jelly over his friction burns.  Viktor could see the faint shimmer of tears at the corners of his eyes, even in the crimson dark.  They worked together to wrap the strips of cloth until they were tight and clean over both Seung Gil’s hands.  They were still wet and dark at the palms, but at least they were dressed. Viktor handed Seung Gil the last remaining piece of bandage before taking the respirator from Guang Hong.

“It’s good, I don’t need any m—” Seung Gil began to mumble, but Viktor cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“For your eyes,” he corrected gently.  “It’s okay. I saw it all. You did everything you could.”

“I was a coward,” Seung Gil whispered through gritted teeth.  “I was scared of that woman.”

As he should have been, Viktor thought.  The Cripsinos were a force to be reckoned with.  He didn’t say anything though, only hummed empathetically and counted the seconds between Phichit’s breaths.

After a few minutes of silence, Yuuri spoke up.  “I don’t think you were a coward, Seung Gil,” he said flatly, making a pointed effort to not turn in the direction of the med efforts.  “At least you didn’t run the first chance you got.”

“Yuuri…” Seung Gil sighed reproachfully, but the mechanic did not seem interested in arguing.  He sat, chewing his tongue stubbornly, staring straight ahead as if  _ anything _ could be seen through the treacherous storm.

“I understand how that must have seemed,” Viktor said quietly.  “I’m sorry, Yuuri, I didn’t mean to leave you to wonder.”

“You’re telling me you didn’t run?” Yuuri asked incredulously.  “What the hell were you doing at the feet of the man who is still actively pursuing us, then?”

“I was mainly determining whether or not I was still alive,” Viktor admitted.  “And trying to convince Commander Giacometti to call off his fleet.”

“Sounds very convenient,” Yuuri said haughtily.  “What, the man you tried to ally with to beat The Head just  _ happened _ to show up shortly after you told me?” he spat.  It was as if he felt the need to take up Phichit’s banner of skepticism in his absence.  Viktor was struck by how affected he was by the Magpie’s words. “Why would you expect me to believe that?”

Viktor sighed.  “You have nothing but my word, and I am more than aware that given my reputation, that is less than enough,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm and controlled.  “I had hoped that being open with you about everything, the good and the bad, would have afforded me at least a little bit of trust. It was the best I could do. But to ask you to believe me would be far beyond what I deserve.”

“Whatever,” Yuuri gritted, leaning into the steering wheel as he pushed on through the red dust.  “You started this, Warlord, but I am going to end it. In the morning, you’ll be at the mercy of The King, and the world will be better for it.”

“Yuuri, you’re being unfair,” Guang Hong said quietly.  “Any one of us could have fallen under the command of The Head.  Leo did.”

Viktor watched the Urser who defected from Celestino’s fleet wrap his free arm around Guang Hong’s middle, his expression soft but unreadable in the strange red glow.  The sniper leaned into him solemnly, eyes never leaving Phichit in front of him.  

“So what?” Yuuri cried, jerking the wheel suddenly and sending more than one of the passengers rolling in the back of the cab.  “Let’s say we call off our trade deal. Then what? Yutopia loses its protections from The Kingdom. We probably gain a new enemy in Jack The King, if the rumors we’ve heard about his arrogance are true.  We’re on The Citadel’s radar now, so it isn’t long until they find us.”

“You have a decorated war general among your ranks now, Yuuri,” Seung Gil interjected.  “One who knows The Citadel inside and out! We can fight back!”

Yuuri slammed a fist down on the steering wheel, using it to steady them while he fussed with a dial on his other side.  “That man is  _ not _ among our ranks!” he shouted, his voice ragged and breaking with emotion.  “It’s because of him that we’re abandoning our mission to escape through a dust storm, and Phichit is… is…”

The cab hung in stunned silence, interrupted only by Yuuri’s sudden sobs.  Viktor found himself once more wishing he could go back to the seclusion of his captivity, left to worry and wait alone.  The desperation in the mechanic’s voice was so jarring—or maybe it was the fact that Viktor actually felt the need to make it better, not for the security of his own life, but so that Yuuri would understand he was not fighting alone.

It was more than understandable.  Viktor had wept countless nights back in The Citadel, cursing his dependence on Yakov and his inability to escape.  Searching furiously for a way out, a plan, any source of hope. For so long, morning came with nothing to show but another hopeless sunrise, another set of orders to carry out.  Until Christophe, Viktor had been so trapped. When that alliance was ripped from him by the Magpies, Viktor had watched his only chance at redemption slip through his fingertips.  He knew more than anyone else the fear that Yakov could instill in people.

_ “Wow, you really got yourself into a fucking mess,”  _ came the little punk’s voice, still only speaking Rusk.   _ “Why didn’t you ditch these guys ages ago?” _

And then Viktor remembered.  It hadn’t been The Magpies who had immobilized him in the Switser territory.  Someone else had stopped him there, had  _ threatened Makkachin _ in a flaccid attempt at intimidation.  Suddenly, he had a plan. It would do nothing for his rapport with the only compatriots he knew to still be alive, but it would have to be done for now.  Amends could be made once they cut off The Head.

“We have a trump card against Yakov,” he said suddenly.  “Leverage, if we decide to fight him.” All heads in the rear seat turned to him, and suddenly he was very thankful that the Ruskers were still tied up.  “We— Well, unbeknownst to most…” he floundered for a moment, trying to find the best way to break this news. “We have Yakov’s sole most important treasure with us.  The Lost Gem of Rusk, the disappearance of which spawned the Decade of Relinquished Mercy. Ten years ago, the top-ranking military officer in Rusk was the first of many to attempt mutiny.  In the middle of the night, he advanced on Yakov’s fortress and killed anyone who got in his way. He worked alone, no army to back him up. He cut down half the nobles under Yakov and had almost made it to The Head himself when he was found out.  In the end, he managed to flee, but not before kidnaping Yakov’s grandson and heir to The Citadel.”

He looked around excitedly, but not even Yuri showed any recognition in his eyes.

“That man was General Nikolai Plisetsky, my mentor and friend.  He took the boy the village where we were both born, Old Rusk, and raised him as his own—trained him to fight and instilled in him a deep hatred of The Citadel and all of the atrocities that it… that  _ I _ performed in its name.”  He turned to Yuri to find the boy wide-eyed and biting his lip so hard a trickle of dark, wet blood was beginning to stream down his chin.  _  “This is no way for you to find out, Yura,” _ he said in Rusk.   _ “I’ve long come to understand that I am beyond your forgiveness.” _   He watched Yuuri seethe in speechless anger and grief, and whatever else he must have been feeling.  “I promise I will not let anyone touch you,” he said softly, switching back to common tongue. “I swore to Nikolai before the razing of Old Rusk hat I would protect you with my life, and I will never break that promise.”

“I don’t understand,” sniffed Yuuri at the wheel.  “What does this have to do with us?”

“I think we’re using the rogue as a shield?” Seung Gil puzzled.

Leo shook his head.  “It sounds like we’re using him as leverage,” he posited.

“If you all don’t shut up, I’ll bust out of these ties and fucking kill you!” Yuri shouted, laying against Otabek’s chest in the back.  Viktor could see the shining streams of tears now painting his cheeks, could hear how the emotion caused his words to come out clumsy and thickly-accented.  “Viktor Nikiforov will sell anybody out for his own protection. Only a dumbass would trust that fucking traitor!”

“Yura…” Viktor started softly, but at the sound of his voice, Yuri thrashed and kicked, upsetting Guang Hong’s position and causing him to topple over on top of Phichit.  The Magpie leader sputtered, crying out into the sickening stillness before slipping back into unconsciousness.

Viktor’s stomach turned.  He had almost seen hope in this war machine, and now all he could see was red dust and death.

“We’ll have to discuss this further at Yutopia,” Seung Gil said darkly, keeping his eyes down.  “I don’t think any one of us is fit to make plans right now. We have more important things to attend to.”  He switched out rags as he spoke, the used ones dark and dripping as he lifted them up.

Nothing more was spoken after that.  Viktor was left to wait and wonder what this “Yutopia” was and why the Magpies spoke of it with such quiet reverence.  What made it so worth protecting that its stewards would enter into a risky alliance with Jack The King to protect it? Why did the answer to every dilemma rest on their ability to make it to this mysterious land?

Viktor puzzled over the Magpies for what felt like hours amid tense sniffles and muffled sobs.  When the time came, he switched out Phichit’s blood bag and switched places with Seung Gil, letting him operate the respirator while doing what he could to hold Phichit together just a while longer.  He felt the sickening grind of bones shifting beneath his fingers, and pretty soon his hands were damp and slippery with blood as well. He wasn’t sure how much longer this guy would make it.

If it hadn’t been for the drastic change of light from tempestuous, flashing red to sudden stillness and deep, dark blue, Viktor wouldn’t have realized that they’d made it out of the dust storm and into a clear twilight.  It was as if surfacing from a bottomless ocean, dark and dangerous only until it wasn’t. On all sides, held breath was released in long, exhausted sighs and weary whimpers. Guang Hong slept in Leo’s arms while the latter kept watch over the Ruskers, although sometime long ago all weapons had been dropped in spite of Yuuri’s words.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon, clear and white, when the grind of tires against the sand signaled the end of their run.  Guang Hong and Seung Gil scrambled to let down the glass shields, and immediately Viktor could smell…  _ something. _   Something beyond the confines of the war machine smelled different from the sun-baked clay and rotted flesh that the desert offered or the human filth and stench of disease that the usual settlements offered.  

Viktor ventured to look up from his post at Phichit’s side long enough to determine that wherever they were, it was not desert.  It wasn’t city, either. The shadows cast over the other passengers’ faces were lively and swaying as the rig rolled through, and the wind that swept through the open windows and turrets was crisp and fresh and… and alive.  

Before he could even crane his neck to glance outside, Viktor could see the green that topped tall, thin tree trunks on either side of the vehicle.  Suddenly, it became very clear why Yutopia needed protection. As he turned to lean out the window and peer down at the ground below, Viktor saw a vast field of lush, green grass and tall, sturdy palms that thrust upward in large, billowing fans.  The perimeter of this mysterious oasis was all high, smooth cliffside, shielding and shading it from the rest of the desert. Here and there, Viktor could see signs of wildlife flitting between the trees: rabbits, wild dogs, even horses flew by as they ventured deeper and deeper into this hidden treasure trove of fertile land.

The edge had left Yuuri’s voice when he next spoke, pulling out into a clearing at what Viktor assumed must have been the center of the little valley.  “Guang Hong, you’re on cargo,” he called. “Have Leo help you determine what is wild and what is domestic. Anything that might need nursing or feeding is domestic.  Anything wild can be tagged and let go immediately. Seung Gil, you and I will deal with the Ruskers,” he said firmly. “But first, it’s going to take all four of us to get Phichit inside to the spring.”

There was a shuffling of bodies as the war machine groaned to a halt.  The Magpies moved urgently and efficiently, using a rescue blanket to pull Phichit up and out of the cabin.  Viktor sat, moving out of the way when he needed to, and awaited judgement on what “dealing with the Ruskers” would entail.

“You come along too, warlord,” Yuuri said suddenly, holding up a hand to help Viktor to his feet.  “You’re pretty badly injured. It wouldn’t be fair to…” He shifted uncomfortably, chewing on whatever words he had been about to say.  “Just…. Come on. We’ll get you cleaned up.”

“Let the boys come too, it’s been a confusing and emotional run for them,” Viktor said, surprised he’d even dared to protest.  “Otherwise, I’ll stay out here.”

He watched the Magpies and the Urser carry Phichit inside the little cabin as Yuuri bounced impatiently on one foot in front of him, glancing back and forth between him and the rogues.

“Fine,” he finally said.  “You’re right, I… I think we all deserve a rest after… after…”

Viktor nodded.  “You did what you thought was right,” he said softly.  “I’ve acted out of anger more times than I can count.”

“I’m still angry,” Yuuri said.  “But this entire situation seems to be more complex than righteous rage, so…”  He waved his hand, still extended in front of Viktor’s face. “I guess all I can do right now is trust?”

Viktor laughed, taking Yuuri’s hands and letting himself be pulled precariously to his feet.  Together, they helped Yuri and Otabek up, and all four men hopped down from the rig onto soft, living soil.

“What the fuck is this place?” Yuri said blearily, looking around with red, puffy eyes.

“This is Yutopia,” Yuuri said, inhaling deeply.  “This is my home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the great reception this fic has received!! I have had so much fun writing and updating, and I can't wait to share the rest of this story with you! Make sure you're subscribed to the series to get updates on Part Two, which details the process of healing and regrouping in Yutopia!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a blast to write and collaborate on. Special thanks to SnarkonIce, izzyisozaki, and scribblesinthemargins for all the help in making it happen, and thanks to everyone at the yoibb for organizing the event!  
> We're on Twitter! [SnarkyBreeze](http://twitter.com/snarkybreeze) and [heavyhenry2.](http://twitter.com/heavyhenry2)
> 
> We're also on Tumblr! [kingfisherunion](http://kingfisherunion.tumblr.com) and [snarkonice.](http://snarkonice.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos, comments, and shares are welcomed and appreciated! 
> 
> This fic is part one of a three-part series that will continue after the bang, so keep on looking out for new works and chapters!


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